“And this will not be so very long now. In a few months, in a few days, nothing will remain but a little skeleton of this little woman who is now alive.”
She raised her eyes toward her portrait, which smiled down upon this caricature of herself; then she looked at those of the two men, the disdainful poet and the inspired musician, who seemed to say: “What does this ruin want of us?”
An indefinable, poignant, irresistible sadness overwhelmed my heart, the sadness of existences that have had their day, but who are still debating with their memories, like a person drowning in deep water.
From my seat I could see on the highroad the handsome carriages that were whirling from Nice to Monaco; inside them I saw young, pretty, rich and happy women and smiling, satisfied men. Following my eye, she understood my thought and murmured with a smile of resignation:
“One cannot both be and have been.”
“How beautiful life must have been for you!” I said.
She heaved a great sigh.
“Beautiful and sweet! And for that reason I regret it so much.”
I saw that she was disposed to talk of herself, so I began to question her, gently and discreetly, as one might touch bruised flesh.
She spoke of her successes, her intoxications and her friends, of her whole triumphant existence.